


Is It Love or Is It Egglant Parm?

by 0ctaviablaked



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Emori can cook, F/M, Fluff, He also really loves eggplant parmesan, Murphy has a fake plant, Swearing, basically just fluff, roommate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6089929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0ctaviablaked/pseuds/0ctaviablaked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roommate AU: When Bellamy moves out, and Murphy needs a new roommate, Clarke suggests he put up an ad online. The result is sarcastic and oddly specific. The girl that responds to it is nothing like he expected her to be.</p><p>Written as a request from an anon on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is It Love or Is It Egglant Parm?

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the anon on tumblr that requested this. Sorry it took longer than I intended!

“I’m sorry, Bellamy. You’re doing what?”

“This is my two week notice. I’m paying this month’s rent, and then I’m moving out, Murphy.”

“Why?” Murphy was never one to freak out, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit thrown by the news that his roommate was just up and leaving.

“Well, Clarke and I are getting serious and—“

“Who’s supposed to make me eggplant parmesan now?” Yeah, Bellamy was his best friend, but he was also the only one of the two that could actually cook. And Bellamy made a eggplant parmesan that was to die for.

Bellamy raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s what you’re concerned about?” Murphy just nodded, unashamed. “Well, lucky for you, I already planned on making enough for a few meals and sticking it in the freezer for you.” 

“God, thank you, Bellamy,” he replied, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Now. How am I supposed to find another roommate that’s going to put up with me?”

“That, my friend, is your problem.”

~

For the next two days, Murphy sat in front of a computer, his head in his hand as he scrolled through what felt like a million and two adverts of people looking for a place to stay. They all either seemed too weird, too wild, or too impossibly perfect. What kind of person didn’t have annoying bad habits or obnoxious shows that they liked to watch?

Finally, Clarke, who had been over to help Bellamy pack his things, took pity on Murphy. “Make a post on Craigslist,” she suggested helpfully. When he just stared at her with a blank _how the heck am I supposed to do that_ look, she sighed and took the laptop from him. “You’re hopeless, you know that,” she mumbled, shaking her head as she pressed a few keys and passed the screen back to him. “Here. Just write out what you’re looking for in a roommate. I can help you after we get Bellamy’s room packed up.” Murphy just glared at her and waves her away in the direction of her boyfriend. He didn’t hate Clarke, but it was hard to be nice when she was stealing his best friend away.

An hour later, Bellamy and Clarke had packed up everything that Bellamy doesn’t need to function in the next week and a half, and Murphy had finished his Craigslist ad—without Clarke’s help, thank you very much. The resulting block of text is something that made Clarke roll her eyes, and Bellamy snort with laughter. “Well, it’s very…sarcastic,” she commented.

“It’s 100% John Murphy,” Bellamy chuckled.

_**Wanted:** A roommate that isn’t a piece of shit like my old one_

_**Requirements:** _

_1\. CAN COOK EGGPLANT PARM *All other requirements are second to this one*_

_2\. Doesn’t have an annoying-ass girlfriend that will steal you away to live with her after six months_

_3\. Also. If you do have that annoying girlfriend, fine. But you’re not allowed to hook up here more than once a week. And if I come home and find you making out on the kitchen counter, then you’re gone._

_4\. Should have an interesting and extensive DVD and video game collection_

_5\. And don’t be picky about alcohol because if you’re a snob about what beer I drink, I will personally pack your bags myself._

_6\. You should probably be as big on drinking as I am. It gets awkward when I’m the only one that’s drunk-vomited on the carpet._

_7\. Tattoos_

_8\. A pet iguana_

_9\. If you have a vacuum that would be awesome too._

_10\. Bring me a housewarming gift._

_11\. Seriously if you can’t cook then don’t bother._

_**If interested,** contact John Murphy at the number or email address below. If he doesn’t think you’re a complete wack-job, then congrats. You’ve found yourself an apartment._

“Why do you want a roommate with a pet iguana?” Clarke asked.

“Why do you want to move in with Bellamy Blake?” Murphy shot back. “He’s the reason the newbie is gonna need to bring a vacuum.”

“Touché.” 

Not even three days later, Murphy gets an email from someone who swears that they make the best eggplant parmesan on earth. Murphy was skeptical, but he sent back a quick response with a date and the apartment building and number. 

~

The person who showed up in the doorway of his apartment is not at all what he expected. He had been expecting some geeky kid with a box of video games, eager to prove he met at least one of the ad’s requirements. Sure, it would have meant the dweeb probably didn’t drink, but on the other hand, Murphy would have gotten a plethora of new gaming material, and it would have been a guarantee that the kid didn’t have a girlfriend. You win some, you lose some.

Instead, the person who shows up is a girl. She had a tattoo curling around the left side of her face, and she was wearing some sort of bandana around her dark hair. He was lucky his jaw didn’t hit the floor, because God be damned; she may be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. 

“I’m Emori,” she said finally said politely and holding out a hand to shake after he had stood there in shock for a few moments, staring at her and doing nothing. Murphy looked at her hand dumbly and said the most intelligent thing that came to mind.

“You’re a girl.”

“How observant.”

“But. You’re a girl.”

“Oh, come on,” Emori sighed, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “I got from your ad that you were a little strange, but don’t tell me you’re sexist too.”

“No!” Murphy jumped to say, realizing his mistake. “Not at all! I just wasn’t expecting…”

“A girl?” she offered helpfully.

“Yeah. Uh, I’m John Murphy. But usually just Murphy.”

“I don’t have a pet iguana.”

“You don’t—what?” he spluttered in confusion. Where did that come from?

“A pet iguana. Your ad? I don’t have one. I do have a Rottweiler if that’s okay.”

“Oh, I—that was just me being—yeah, a dog’s fine.” He could have killed himself for acting like such a fool. He was John Freakin’ Murphy, for heaven’s sake. He talked to girls all the time, so why was it different now? If Bellamy was home and not helping Clarke shop for curtains or whatever else “couples” shopped for when beginning their lives of domesticity, he never would have let him live this down.

“I brought the eggplant parm as a housewarming gift,” Emori shrugged, handing him a Tupperware container. “Kill two birds with one stone and all that, you know? And I’ve got a vacuum at my old place. And I won’t be hooking up with anyone on your kitchen counter.”

“That’s—yeah, that’s great.” Murphy was still lost as to what was happening. There was a pretty girl in his front hall that was waiting expectantly to hear whether or not she could share an apartment with him of all people. “I should—I’ll show you around.”

He stepped back to let her inside, and watched as she made her way through the two bedroom apartment like she already owned the place. “My room’s over there,” he said, gesturing at a door down the hallway, “that door is the bathroom, and that one, is yours. Well, technically right now it’s still Bellamy’s, but he’ll be gone soon.”

Emori grinned up at Murphy coyly, as she pushed the door open to the room that would soon be hers. “You saying you’re letting me move in?”

“Sure, why not?”

She smiled, about to say something else, but her face fell when she saw the state of the room. With most of the furniture gone, you could see the true faring of the carpet. “So this is what the vacuum is for. This place needs doused in bleach.”

“Bellamy can be a bit of a…” Murphy trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“A slob?”

“Pretty much.”

“It’s alright. I’ve got a carpet scrubber too. That wasn’t on your weird-ass list, but I do have tattoos, like you required in your ad.” Emori added the last part as an afterthought, pointing to the very obvious one on her face.”

Murphy smirked, feeling himself relax more around her. “Got any more I should know about?” he asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Emori just snorted, and shook her head. “In places you’ll only see in your dreams, John.”

~

The day she moved in, Emori’s dog could hardly stay out of the way, running back and forth, slobbering all over everything. In the end, Murphy tripped over Blitz no less than seven times. After all of her boxes had finally been brought inside (including her vacuum and carpet scrubber), Emori ran back out to her car, claiming she had to get one last thing. When she came back in holding a six pack of beer and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, that’s when Murphy knew he was screwed. This woman was perfect, and no one could convince him otherwise.

That night, John Murphy learned the important things about his new roommate—like the fact that despite her small size, she could hold her alcohol better than anyone he knew, including himself. He also learned that while she was unfairly good at Halo and any game that involved killing zombies, she couldn’t get the hang of Call of Duty or Madden 15. Rather than complain that he switch the game though, she just folded her legs underneath her in the worn-out armchair with her beer and her game controller, and screwed her face up at the screen in a way that was completely hypnotizing to Murphy. 

“Damn it!” she swore as Murphy scored yet another touchdown, causing Blitz to lift his head in alarm from the dog bed he was resting on in the corner of the room. Emori’s gloriously extensive vocabulary was another thing he learned about her that first night.

~

As it would turn out, Emori was a culinary student. Her school was just a few blocks over, and that was why she had been looking for an apartment in the area in the first place. Murphy didn’t care about the reason so much, he just thanked whatever gods were out there in the great big world that he had had the good fortune to end up with a roommate that could cook. Clearly, someone out in the universe didn’t want him to starve to death.

Her schooling in itself was one of the greatest blessings Murphy had ever received. After class, she would bring home the leftovers of incredible dishes that he scarfed down as soon as she walked in the door with them. On days when she wasn’t in class, she would lounge around the apartment and ask for his input on what she should make for dinner, and then shoot him down every time he asked for eggplant parmesan. He had to admit, whatever she ended up making was always better. 

She had a habit of calling him John, when everyone else called him Murphy. The first time that the difference was really brought to his attention was when he had a few of his friends over to introduce him to his new housemate/personal chef, and because Emori had insisted on cooking, of course, everything was delicious. Murphy had tried to convince her that it wasn’t anything big, and ordering a pizza would suffice because “Listen, we’re all either in college still, or just out of it, and pizza is our go-to,” but she wouldn’t hear a word of it, and instead made an appetizer, a meal, and a dessert. 

He was eternally grateful that Emori got along with all of his friends. She nodded along with Clarke’s conversation about med school. When their topic gradually drifted into art, Emori managed to convince the blonde to design her a new tattoo. Raven had the same sense of humor that Emori did, and they kept themselves occupied by poking fun at Bellamy and Wick and Jasper, and she even ended up getting information on a new kick boxing studio that Raven wanted to check out with a friend. “Beside,” the mechanic had reasoned, “It would be a good thing to know in case you have to keep Murphy in place.” The evening really couldn’t have gone better. Also, if Murphy was being honest, he was a little pleased to be able to rub it in Bellamy’s face that not only had he ended up with a roommate that could cook the best eggplant parmesan he’d ever had, but he also ended up with someone who was not a psychopath, and was a hot girl. 

“Emori, this cake is better than sex,” Clarke practically moaned as she finished off her second piece of red velvet. They were all seated in the living room with some football game on for background noise. Jasper had quickly made friends with Blitz, and was sitting next to him on the floor, scratching his stomach. Raven didn’t even bother trying to contain her laughter at the hurt, puppy-dog look that crossed Bellamy’s face at his girlfriend’s declaration.

“Looks like you’ve got competition, Blake,” she teased, elbowing him in the side, only to receive a “Shut up, Reyes” in response. 

“Yeah, Clarke might be leaving you for Emori now that she’s been exposed to better food than what you make her,” Murphy laughed.

“John, stop it,” Emori snorted, smacking his arm lightly. That simple sentence made the room go silent.

Jasper instantly stopped petting the Rottweiler’s ears, and if he hadn’t already been sitting on the floor, he might have fallen off the sofa in astonishment. Bellamy’s mouth hung open in disbelief, and Clarke—who had gotten a third slice of cake—let her fork stop halfway to her mouth. 

“You just...did you just call him John?” Wick spluttered. Murphy could feel his face heating up, and he caught Raven’s lips curling into a knowing smirk.

“Yeah,” Emori shrugged. “Murphy just never felt right to me.”

“Murphy doesn’t let anyone call him John,” Raven chimed in, supplying the reason for everyone’s disbelief. “I’m pretty sure the last person that used his first name was his mother.”

“Raven,” Murphy hissed at her, trying to tell her to cut it out without causing a scene. She stopped talking, but the smile on her face made her look like she had just put together a working, two-way radio out of a tin can and some string.

The conversation eventually moved on, but as everyone was filing out, Raven pulled him aside, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “You’re in deeeep, Murphy,” she drawled out. Before he could even say a word, she had taken off after Wick, practically skipping down the hallway.

~

Murphy and Emori were good roommates, really. They rarely fought, never had to complain about whose turn it was to wash the dishes or clean the bathroom. The only causes of conflict came from two things. Emori’s lack of privacy, and Fern.

Fern was Murphy’s fake plant. Fern was also not a fern.

“It’s a ficus!” Emori had exclaimed when he had first mentioned the name of it.

“A ficus named Fern,” Murphy shrugged.

“It’s stupid,” she snorted, running a finger over one of its leaves. An incredulous expression crossed her face. “It’s not even a real plant! You, John Murphy, are the worst type of person.”

“It was Bellamy’s!” he shot back defensively. “I can’t just get rid of it. What if he wants it back?”

“If Bellamy wanted this stupid tree, he’d have taken it with him, or he would have been back to get it by now. And as you can see, he hasn’t.”

“Okay, but what if he’s going to?”

“John! Clarke probably didn’t want the damn thing either!”

Murphy pouted and wrapped his arms around the fake plant’s skinny trunk. “Fine. Maybe I like it.”

“You need to get rid of it.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

After that discussion, Emori had tried to throw out Fern on a regular basis. Murphy would realize it was missing from her corner, and have to dart down the stairs of the apartment building to reach the curb before the garbage truck came for the week. He would then proceed to lug the tree back up two flights of stairs and proudly place the pot on the counter, just to rub it in Emori’s face that she had failed. She tried everything she could think of to get rid of that thing. She had tried to encourage Blitz to eat it on more than one occasion, and once, he had even found an ad online advertising “a stupid ass tree with a misleading name that my roommate won’t get rid of voluntarily.” He bid on the auction and won, and when Emori realized the shipping address was right back to where it came from, he had thought she was going to kill him. 

In reality, all she did was refuse to cook him anything that wasn’t burnt for a month. 

The other issue that the pair faced was that Emori had a maddening habit of not knowing what was crossing personal boundaries. Not in an obnoxious “I’m-always-going-to-be-in-your-personal-space” type of way, but in more of a “basic-human-anatomy-doesn’t-embarrass-me-and-I-have-no-issue-with-proving-it” way. She’d walk around in a sports bra—just under the fabric of it, the ends of one of her tattoos curled out, covering the side of her ribs—and boxers that she got from God knew where, because she swore up and down that she didn’t have a boyfriend (which Murphy would admit came as a bit of a relief). When he was on the phone with Bellamy, Murphy would swear up and down that she did it on purpose to see how long it would take for him to die. The first time she had walked out of her room like that, and seated herself on the couch with a piece of cold pizza, Murphy had nearly gone into cardiac arrest. 

She also had a habit of bursting into the bathroom at the most awful times it seemed. He had been horrified by it all at first, but when it became clear that she didn’t intend on stopping any time soon, he gave in. It became totally normal for her to walk in and do her make up while he was taking a piss. The first time she had done it, Murphy had been taking a shower, and she had scared the living daylights out of him.

“Emori!” he exclaimed, breaking off in the middle of the song he had been singing as he shampooed his hair.

“Morning, John,” she greeted simply, mumbling around her toothbrush.

“What? No! Get out!”

“Can’t. Class in eleven minutes. I’m in a hurry.” She rinsed her mouth out and started washing her face.

“Emori, I’m taking a shower, for Christ’s sake.”

“I know, it’s fine. Please, don’t stop on account of me.”

“No, I mean, you need to leave.”

“Relax, John. I’m not checking you out.” 

Murphy felt his face blush bright red, but she wasn’t paying enough attention to notice. Like she said, she wasn’t even looking at all. “I wasn’t—I didn’t say you were,” he spluttered. Emori just ignored him and finished up.

“See you tonight. I’m bringing back dinner. Text me if you need anything from the store,” she said as she left the bathroom. A moment later, her voice floated back to him. “Oh, and John?”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re going to sing Beyoncé, at least sing it in the right key.”

~

Finally, Murphy decided he was being unfair. Emori had done 96% of the cooking since she had moved in, and even though she assured him that she didn’t mind, he still felt like crap about it. So during one of the days she had gone kickboxing with Raven, he snuck out to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner. All Murphy really knew how to cook was pasta, so he figured spaghetti and meatballs would do. It was nothing elaborate and fancy, and certainly wouldn’t be up to par with what Emori made, but the thought was what counted, right? 

Murphy didn’t know what had come over him. Sure, he had girlfriends in the past, but usually the understanding between both parties involved was that they were to be temporary. They went on dates, and they had fooled around, but what he had felt was nothing like what he felt for Emori. She made his mouth go dry, and his hands sweat, and it made him feel like some prepubescent teenage boy with a crush. Clarke had told him that he looked at her “like she had hung the moon.” Bellamy put it in simpler terms by saying he acted like a lovesick puppy. Raven of course, was Raven, and said that he looked at her like he didn’t just want to bang her. All three of his friends’ observations were accurate.

When Emori came home to the smell of food cooking, she was immediately concerned. The last time Murphy had tried to use the stove, he had started a grease fire. Instead of finding the kitchen burning down, she found that the table had been set and pasta and sauce were on the table, and Murphy was reaching into the oven to pull out a pan, oblivious to her presence. 

“John?” she questioned, causing him to jump, and then swear as he burnt his hand on the rack. She rushed to grab an ice pack from the freezer and gave it to him as he was still cradling his fingers and hissing in pain. “Did you do this all on your own?” she asked once his pain had dulled to a throb. “Like, no help from Bellamy?”

“I—uh, yeah, I did it myself,” he stammered, his cheeks bright red in embarrassment. “I figured, you do all of the cooking, and well—it may not be great but—“ With a grin, Emori shook her head and planted a kiss on a stunned Murphy’s cheek.

“It’s perfect,” she beamed as they sat down to eat.

Afterwards, they sprawled out on the couch, Murphy at one end with Emori’s feet resting in his lap. “Tell me again why you don’t cook for me more often?” she quipped, taking a sip of the beer she had dangling in her hand. 

“Because the stuff I make is unworthy of your taste buds.”

“Well, I’m not dead yet,” she shrugged. Both of them breathed out a soft chuckle at that, and then they fell quiet again.

It was a comfortable silence. Neither of them really felt the need to keep a constant conversation going around each other. It was just nice and easy, and Murphy loved that about them. They never had to put effort into entertaining each other, because each found the other entertaining without even trying. After Murphy had finished downing his own beer, he felt the need to say something about his childish, schoolboy-crush he had on her. And that in itself was stupid, because he had kept it to himself with ease for a long time, even with more alcohol in him to give him false courage.

“Emori, I—this is going to sound stupid,” he started.

“I’ve heard you drunk off your ass and half sobbing about how the bartender wouldn’t serve you any ice cream. I doubt it could sound much stupider.”

“I—what? When did that happen?”

Emori just waved off his question. “Forget it. Finish what you were saying.”

“I just, for a really long time it feels like, I’ve thought you were really great.” He held up a hand to stop her when she opened her mouth, presumably to say ‘I know.’ She got cocky when she was tipsy, and it only made him love her personality even more. “You’re just really funny and smart, and you cook a million times better than Bellamy, and your tattoos are really cool, and—“ 

“John,” Emori cut him off gently. It was probably a good thing anyways. Murphy had gotten off track, and he didn’t know where he was going anymore with his sentence. “Just spit it out.”

“I think I’m trying to say that I might…have feelings for you?” he finally said, cringing at his choice of words. Everything sounded cheesy in reality, but it seemed as if he had picked the most insincere ones to describe what was an incredibly sincere feeling.

But rather than make fun of him or politely tell him she was uninterested, Emori simply beamed at him. She moved over closer to him and pressed her lips against his before he could protest or back away. It only took him a moment to respond, tangling her hair around his fingers on one hand, the other cradling her cheek. When she pulled away finally, she spoke softly against his lips.

“It was about damn time.”

~

In the end, Murphy gets to see all of Emori’s tattoos in their entirety. They eat a whole lot of eggplant parm, (even though Murphy swears her lasagna is the food of the gods) and she finally convinces him to throw out that stupid fake plant. And that “no screwing on the kitchen table” rule? 

Yeah, that’s gone too.


End file.
